


got scars on my back to prove you were here

by wildeblackseoul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mentions of Death, PWP, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildeblackseoul/pseuds/wildeblackseoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(his eyes shine in challenge, fiery amber, reminds derek too much of the sun. he’ll burn his eyes out if he stares at it for too long. so he averts his eyes onto the rise and fall of scott’s chest, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. derek bends forward and laps at it, the tangy flavour electrifying his taste buds; he can’t help the groan-howl that escapes from him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	got scars on my back to prove you were here

When the moon starts to fill herself up with light and milky stone, when Derek has become lost in the blur between man and wolf, when beast and human relentlessly fight for dominance, when the beast sinks its teeth in the human’s heart and comes out victorious and assumes the role of id, he goes prowling in the dark.

(It’s not the loss of any control precisely, but more along the lines of dismissing some restraints placed there for a reason. It is liberation from civility.

(Really, it all comes down to choice, such a fickle thing to be concerned about, Derek knows, but for men like him, choice is the only power he feels he is certainly entitled to. Choice is, he slept with Kate - though in the darkest recesses of his mind he questions if choice could exist around her silver tongue. Choice is the guilt he steadfastly accepts because of the fire, regardless if he hadn’t been the one to set the estate aflame. Choice is what forged him into his wolf, melded the two, left them entirely indistinguishable, because before, there had been little choice, for pack was choice, and pack was Laura.

(But Laura’s dead, six feet under, rotting with luscious wolfsbane smattering skeletons and corroding sinew, so choice at times seems like an illusion. But it’s not unachievable, whatever that means in the grand scheme of fucks up Derek’s bound to make, has made; there’s not much differentiation at this point. He’s not cut out for this, leading some wayward teens into war with false hopes of pack, of _survival_. He’s not Laura, for fuck’s sakes, and he never wanted this - never wanted to miss her so much he can’t even speak of her, never utters her name, he doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t want to tarnish the tiny remnants of her left in him. He hasn’t even howled in memory for her, and it’s fucking pathetic how much of a piss poor excuse he is as a brother, as an Alpha, as a werewolf, as a man.)

Derek soon finds himself at a familiar apartment complex, crouched outside the fourth-floor window by the fire escape stairway. He stifles the urge to yank the frame apart and slip right in, cloaked in the inky shadows, eyes glowing fluorescent red. Instinct (he chooses to trust) will tug him forward, a barely-there growl emitting from his throat, nails lengthening into claws, bone creaking under pale skin. Then the thundering staccato drum of someone’s heartbeat suffocates his other senses, and the scent of blood will taste like sweet nectar, thick and warm as it’ll run down his teeth and fingers.

-

Scott barely registers Derek’s presence at first, as exhaustion bleeds away into awareness. However, once he notes where the man is hovering near the opened window, he isn’t perturbed in the least. If anything, there’s a pressure building in him that he can’t repress, hasn’t been able to for _weeks_. It’s rising to the surface and seeping through his pores, a liquid fire that grapples his center and ignites it, all his nerves lit up like a forest fire.

He shuffles himself towards the edge of the bed and Derek steps forward in retaliation. Hypersensitised senses or not, Scott easily picks up the line of tension in the slope of Derek’s posture, smells the angry trepidation in the air, and when he presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, it’s acrid, sizzling. Makes him gravitate towards Derek, oddly enough.

Scott whispers his name, and he feels more than sees the burning glow of red that snags and rattles his breathing.

\--

(A soft gasp pierces through the silence, strangled in both pleasure and pain, and Derek, the beast, relishes in its cadence, as warm hands cradle him. His eyes flash brightly, almost illuminating the face below him; his fingers trace the sepia skin, blood dragging a sticky trail behind, temporary imprints of his carnal sin on unmarred skin. Scott arches into his touch, panting against Derek’s cheek, the tip of his tongue grazing the stubble there, breath on fire - it’s scathing.

He then dreams of fires, of mouths filled with ash and blood and the rubbery, blackened material of burnt skin, of crumbling brotherhood and spring, tiny almost-technicolor flowers blooming from watery trenches.)

\--

It doesn’t really matter who initiated it, nor does it matter how Scott finds himself sprawled back on his bed, Derek looming over him, his face inscrutable; because Scott just wants but isn’t sure if he can have. Distantly, Scott imagines his ragged breathing is overwhelming Derek, so he’s trying to gasp for air but to no avail. It doesn’t help that Derek maneuvers himself until he fits into place between Scott’s legs, and _Christ_ , Scott definitely knows Derek feels that, going by the small tell-tale smirk on his face. Scott scoffs, but the sound gets stuck in his throat and becomes a shy lopsided smile.

After a few minutes of shared silence, Derek leans a bit closer, barely touching Scott, the tip of his nose brushing his, their breaths clinging to one another, it’s too unbearable to speak, so Scott surges forward, determinedly thoughtless.

Derek’s mouth is hot and tastes of blood and smoky spice, and Scott kisses him and kisses him, because it’s been so fucking long, Allison hasn’t looked in his direction for years now, at least not the way he wants, at least not the way he’s caught _Derek_ looking at him when he thinks Scott’s not watching. They haven’t acknowledged aloud what’s been transpiring between them, confusion and curiosity written in every action - a lingering touch or stare, brush of fingers, faces drawing closer and closer but never truly meeting together.

Sometimes Derek would let loose too many things that he’s purposefully kept inside his crooked heart, they just spill forth like a cool spring splashing at Scott's feet. And Scott may or may not have alluded too many stories about an absent father who hasn’t left bruises across his wrists and eyes and memories of home, crumbling but left standing by the strong, small hands of his mother, in so many years.

And on most days they sit side by side, shoulders connecting, eyes unfocused, unsaid words floating in the air. These occurrences have become far more apparent the last few weeks, and there are times where the quiet becomes too palpable for Scott, makes him think about dark hair and pretty smiles marred with hurt and although he knows that memories are intangible, it doesn’t stop the anguish coursing through him; but he's always pulled back, anchored, by the steady hand resting on his knee, warmth cloaking brittle skin and bones, and Scott just leans into it, almost falls onto Derek, and Derek remains, unmoving.

Derek kisses like he’s vacillating, though, like he can’t keep up, or is rushing too much, too fast too hard, as though Scott will breeze past him if he doesn’t take root in him; that shouldn’t have Scott’s heart thundering against his chest, shouldn’t have his blood pulsating like a drum battering his eardrums, shouldn’t suck his lungs out dry yet bathe them in lava, nestled in the spaces, burning and cooling and burning again and again.

They draw away for a few scathing seconds, mouths wet and the color of pomegranates, Scott wrapping himself around Derek, nipping at his jawline. Derek pushes him further into the mattress, kissing his throat, his cheeks, his eyes, the mole on his chin covered by a newly-accustomed beard. Then he pulls back, his expression writ with consternation and Scott waits because these things you can’t demand.

“Scott,” Derek starts, an edge in his tone that Scott’s never heard yet.

Perhaps he imagines the quick stiffness in Derek’s shoulders that melts away before he can fully note it. Derek doesn’t say anything, angles his head and brushes his lips against Scott’s temple, inhaling. Scott squirms a bit under Derek’s scrutiny, half-realising now that he’s only in his boxers. It’s almost baffling how acute he’s aware of how the ends of them snag on the denim of Derek’s jeans, until he hones in on the fingers spreading over his thighs, hot like a brand.

“You need to tell me to leave and I will,” Derek says against Scott’s hair.

Scott stares at him blankly, jaw slack-opened, and Derek’s eyes narrow on it, gaze tinted red around the rim of his green irises.

He didn’t know breathing could hurt worse than any asthma attack could.

“Ask me to go,” Derek says, flat, but his eyes tell a different story. An imperceptible shudder ripples through him as Scott’s hands find themselves lifting away Derek’s jacket, which he takes a minute to remove, revealing corded muscles and a plain gray t-shirt underneath. Scott’s hands return at Derek’s sides, pushing fabric away to reach skin, hard and soft and malleable under his fingernails.

Counting the seconds in his head, his hand roving up and under the flimsy material, Scott’s fingers skim the lines and curls of black ink he knows are resting across Derek’s shoulder blades. He notes the difference of texture between ink and flesh, scratches at the roughness. That elicits the most fascinating reaction from the older man, his face closing in then blooming open in a slight flush that compels Scott to touch. His fingers trace the outlines of Derek’s face, and Derek nudges forwards, and Scott complies, thumb brushing the skin under one of his eyes, the rest of his fingers curving around the angles of his cheekbones.

“Stay,” Scott says, firm, unwavering.

He _feels_ Derek freeze, and Scott doesn't know if it's the fact next week is the full moon or him that's making Derek so slow, but hadn’t that always been the case? Derek hesitates in ways he never shows unless Scott’s in the picture, and why hadn’t he thought of that before, really, when it was painstakingly obvious? Because hesitation comes from trust essentially, if you remove the muscles and organs to examine the bones underneath. Trust allows you vulnerability but at no cost, no reproach, no shame.

Then he wonders, just lightning quick, what it means, that Derek trusts him to this degree; it makes his heart swell, really, just thinking about it. Because Derek then had been arrogant, shining bright in all his glory, as misplaced as it was. But this Derek, older and more beaten down than ever, exhaustion dulling his edges, looks scared, unabashedly. In front of Scott, no less, he isn’t this unguarded around anyone else.

Just for Scott.

And so Scott is the one who takes the plunge, the one who curls an arm around Derek and smiles into the kiss, the one who feels the pieces fall together as Derek exhales, as if he’s been holding everything in until Scott grants him the choice to do so.

Scott is itching under his skin, muscles, the veins thrumming with hot blood and something else altogether - something refracting and reflecting the hurricane encased in Derek’s heavy body; his skin seems to flicker in the moonlight. It’s coaxing Scott to do something, anything, as his hand twists into the dark hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. Derek sighs, buries his nose at his cheek, and then he kisses him, slow and deep, meticulous at first before succumbing to reckless abandon. Derek’s hands roam all over, his touch hot, fingers deft as they skate across the skin of his stomach and Scott grinds forward, grabs Derek’s collar and yanks.

“Take it off,” he says, all in one breath, tugging Derek’s shirt for emphasis, “take this shit off now.”

“Make me,” Derek says, and Scott does, is satisfied by how easily the stitching gives against his punishing grip, tosses the ruined material over Derek’s shoulder, and wrestles him until Derek’s on the bed, Scott atop him. Straddling the body under him, Scott smirks, then _grinds_ , watches in awe at how Derek’s spine arcs into him, canting. Scott leans down and licks at Derek’s nipples, plucks at his waistband, the buttons of his jeans, zips the jeans open, and reaches inside, starts to stroke at Derek’s cock. Bringing his lips to the corner of Derek’s mouth, Scott says, “Is this good?”

“Scott,” the growl strangles out, red eyes flitting over him, “yes, _c’mon_ ,” and Derek groans, head hitting the pillows, and Scott wants him completely naked, so he pulls at Derek’s jeans, and Derek lets him, helps him by sitting up, enough to discard the jeans off his person, and uses that distraction to his advantage, because Scott finds his back bunching up the sheets, caged in by Derek balancing on his forearms. Scott chuckles, hushed, and presses a palm near Derek’s cock, fingertips winding in dark pubic hairs.

Abruptly, the hand near Scott’s head slices through the fabric of his sheets. Derek pauses, adjusts his upper body, and loosens his deathlike grip. He watches Scott as he twists his head towards the ripping sound and mouths at Derek’s wrist with a bit of teeth; his eyes dart up, chin tilted slightly to to the side.

There’s the knife-like scrape of Derek’s canines along the line of his throat, pressing enough without breaking skin, but Scott strangely wonders if he’d like it, for Derek to just seize him, animalistic and dangerous and uncensored in his fervor. Their bodies mesh together, nothing between them, and maybe that unsettles Scott in ways he can’t explain.

"Oh," says Scott, around a chuckle. "I am _so_ scared of the big bad wolf," but his voice falters, turns in on itself, and it has nothing to do with fear. That stark, honest-to-god realisation subdues him, settles in his skin in a way that he’s never felt, makes him pliant as Derek rocks against him, mouthing his jawline, barely growling expletives, and Scott’s whole body shudders, a molten heat pooling deep in his spine. His thighs quiver and tighten at the sound of the deep, breathy rumbling emitting from Derek’s chest and into his ear. His insides tighten, hips tilted up to meet Derek’s, legs opening wider, inviting the hand fumbling to push his boxers down and away and away and away and to cup him.

Instinctively, Scott bucks up, almost ramming into Derek’s pelvic bone, but the contact isn’t unwelcoming. There’s a hitch in Scott’s breathing, lips parted, and Derek bites around the edges, like he wants to taste everything, to consume him.

And Scott wouldn’t mind, being eaten by Derek, and he isn’t scared in the least by the imagery, makes him clasp his hands around Derek’s neck, resting his elbows on his shoulders, and kiss him over and over, as he’s thrusting into Derek’s opened fist. The bed creaks with their movement. Without blinking away the sweat, Scott can’t take his eyes off Derek’s face, the way the wolf lurks behind it, and Scott growls, vision turning red and amber and blurry. Scott doesn’t steal himself back when he notices how his claws are out, raking through the meaty flesh of Derek’s nape and back, because Derek's fingernails leave matching welts on Scott's hips, finger-shaped bruises and half-mooned crescents that already begin to fade. The pain doesn’t distract him from the hand wrapping around him and squeezing, colors bursting apart across his eyelids - when did he close his eyes?

Scott’s body twists and slots into Derek’s crafty hands, at the right angle of his wrist; Scott’s licking the perspiration building around Derek's neck, and he hears the hitch of Derek’s breath, feels the clumsy fumble of rhythm, the quickening pace. Muscles vibrating from exertion, Derek brings their bodies closer, tangled limbs, planting sloppy kisses on each patch of available skin at his reach. Ruts into Scott harder, erratic, clamps his fangs on his shoulder and pierces skin, and Scott bares his throat, biting down on his lip so hard it's almost bleeding, assaulted by sensations - the smell of Derek’s cum as it lands on their pressed stomachs, the skin knitting over the bloodied teeth marks, the pressure straining to be kept in the pool of his spine, the sound of Derek gravelly voice in his ear stirring every nerve in his body.

The white sparks behind his closed eyelids flare as he comes, dissipate in seconds, and Scott gulps in a few breaths, leans his forehead against Derek’s cheek, just curving up into Derek’s shoulder, their slow pants filling in the blank spaces. He noses at his sticky hairline, inhales deeply, exhales and it sounds content to Scott’s ears. Collapsing on the bed, Scott spreads himself out, languid and lethargic, as exhaustion seeps into him, and Derek joins him, slinging an arm over Scott's waist.

"So we might have woken up my neighbors," Scott says, glancing up at the ceiling where there's some bustling happening above. Derek hums, but his eyes are crinkled around the edges.

"I'm sure they enjoyed the show," Derek says, pressing his nose against Scott's, lips centimeters away. 

"I'll just blame it on the big bad wolf, huh?" A twinge of pain spasms through his body, the cuts and bruises still healing, Derek's knuckles grazing each one as if in apology. Scott shakes his head and kisses Derek's temples. "I like it," he whispers against the skin, smooths one hand on Derek's back, where new cells are regenerating and filling in the long stripes of torn skin, and leaves it right around the base of Derek's skull, fingers carding through the thick tufts of hair. Derek blinks down at him and then smiles, the barest hints of teeth, and Scott's positive Derek picks up the jackrabbit-tempo of his heart. 

"Holy shit," he manages. "Wait. We just had sex."

Derek chuckles. "I guess, if you want to look at it that way," and it should bother him, how casual Derek is, his sarcasm not laced with barbed wire meant to hurt but perpetually erring on the side of caution, nearing the edge of the bed, the opened window. 

"I haven't changed my mind, you know," Scott says, shifting until he's half on Derek's chest, catching himself on his elbows. "I want you to stay."

Derek's gaze flits over him, perhaps to detect the lie that he knows he can find in Scott's voice, but it doesn't exist, because Scott wouldn't do that to Derek again, things weren't the same as they were five years ago, and Scott doesn't have to cast him aside, doesn't _want to_ , and Scott sinks with Derek, as the man relaxes all the tense muscles and limbs of his body, unshackles himself from whatever withdrew him from the outside world. Head still turned towards Scott, Derek firmly presses his mouth on his.

The kiss is steady and warm with no real intention behind it, and it makes Scott’s chest light, a soft happiness floating there, even when sleep overtakes them both.

**Author's Note:**

> burying myself from the shame i am so rusty


End file.
